


Fever

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, Showers, Sick!Watson, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 20:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John has a fever, Sherlock cannot cope, and Mrs. Hudson is awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever

**Author's Note:**

> From the [Kink-meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119367711), and very late: so sorry, Nonny. Betaed by Earlgreytea68 and Britpicked by Wendymr.
> 
>  **[Podfic version](http://watsoffwatson.tumblr.com/post/41899183895/podfic-fever)** recorded by The Silent Devil, read by Grim.

The snow began on Saturday, but Sherlock was busy working on a new composition and was clearly not bothered by it. John puttered around the flat, talked about doing the shopping before the weather worsened, but in the end stayed in his armchair, drank copious amounts of tea and read the newspaper. A quiet Saturday; Sherlock took little notice. 

By the time Sunday morning dawned, however, the streets were coated in frosted white snow, glittering in the pale yellow streetlights. Sherlock peered out the window and had he been a romantic sort, he would have thought he’d stepped back into the Victorian era. The cars lining the street were nothing more than snow drifts and there were only a few pale lines in the road, and even fewer footprints along the pavement. The brick buildings stood out against the white landscape, and snow continued to drift softly down. 

London, perhaps for the first time in years, was silent and still. 

“John, you should see this,” said Sherlock over his shoulder, but John didn’t answer. Sherlock stared in wonder outside for another minute, and then turned completely away from the window, expecting to see John sitting in his chair, frowning at the newspaper. 

The chair was empty. 

“John?” called Sherlock, and he looked up the stairs to John’s bedroom. The man couldn’t still be asleep? It was half eight, he never slept later than seven, even on a Sunday morning. 

But John’s door was shut tight, and there wasn’t a sound. 

“John?” Sherlock called again, and took a few hesitant steps up the stairs. He could count the number of times he’d been in John’s room on a single finger, and that was before it was _John’s_ room. 

But it was silent, and the silence unnerved him. 

Sherlock took another hesitant step. “John!” 

There was a moan and a crash in reply, and Sherlock sprang up the steps and flung John’s door open. 

The room was dark, but he could see the glass still spinning on the floor, where John had knocked it over. John sat on the edge of his bed, holding his head in his hands. 

“Knocked it over,” he mumbled, and fell onto his side. “Can’t see straight.” 

“It’s snowing.” 

John looked up at Sherlock and blinked. His face was pale, and his eyes were bright red. “Snowing?” he asked clumsily, and Sherlock frowned before taking a step into the room and accidentally kicking the now empty water glass to the wall. He didn’t even have to rest his hand on John’s forehead before he knew. 

“You spent yesterday doing little more than sitting in your chair reading the paper, you drank half a gallon of tea, and you’ve got a fever,” he said quickly. “You’re ill, John.” 

“Didn’t feel right yesterday,” mumbled John. “I just need some water.” 

“You need to lie down,” said Sherlock. “I’ll find you some paracetamol.” 

“Right,” said John, and something about the way John gave in so easily unnerved Sherlock. He retrieved the water glass and went back down to the kitchen. 

There was paracetamol in his bathroom cupboard, but when Sherlock shook the bottle, only two pills fell into his hand. He frowned at the empty bottle; perhaps John’s illness was on the wane, and two would be enough. He went back upstairs to find John still in the same position he’d left him in. 

“John. John. _John_.” 

John opened his eyes and blinked. “I’ve got a fever,” he said. 

“Yes, John, keep up,” said Sherlock gently. “Here, sit up, I brought the paracetamol and some water.” 

John pushed himself to sitting, and took both pills at once, before flopping back down to the pillow. He fell asleep again almost immediately. 

Sherlock set the water glass on the table next to John’s bed, and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled the sheet over him. He left the door ajar, just in case. 

* 

The morning came and went, and snow still fell. Sherlock spent the morning with his violin, working on the piece of music that had been eluding him for the last week. It wasn’t until noon that he realized he was thirsty, and that with John ill upstairs, he was on his own for tea. 

Sherlock glanced up the stairs; John hadn’t made a sound all morning. He wondered if the paracetamol had done its job yet. 

“John?” he called up the stairs, but again, there was no answer. This time, Sherlock didn’t hesitate to go up and push the door open. 

John was still in the bed, but now his face was flushed, and his breathing was shallow. He had kicked off the covers, but was shivering. Sherlock glanced; the water glass was bone dry. 

“John?” 

“Fever,” said John without opening his eyes. 

“The paracetamol—“ 

“Not working.” 

“Obviously.” 

John pushed himself up to sitting, and nearly fell out of the bed. Sherlock jumped forward and caught him, and the heat radiating off John’s skin almost burned him. 

“John, you’re burning up,” he said, alarmed. 

“Fever,” mumbled John, and rested his head against Sherlock’s chest for a moment. Sherlock’s heart pounded, and he gently pushed his friend back into the bed. “You shouldn’t be in here, it’s probably flu, you wouldn’t let me give you a jab and you don’t want this, believe me.” 

“Stay there,” said Sherlock. “Stay in your bed, and _don’t. Move._ ” 

“Okay,” said John, his head back on the pillow. He closed his eyes. 

Sherlock walked calmly out of the room and halfway down the stairs before he broke into a run. He grabbed his coat, scarf, and gloves, and raced out of the flat, down the steps, and threw open the door to the road. 

It only took a few steps in the snow for Sherlock to realize that he wasn’t going to get anywhere. The snow had continued to fall steadily in the previous few hours since he’d last looked out the window, and now it was up to his knees, though surely most of it had to be the drifts brought in by the wind. Sherlock sunk into the snow and couldn’t keep his balance; he fell over and caught himself on the snowbank, his gloved hands sinking further in. The coat whipped around him, and Sherlock looked up to see Baker Street completely covered in snow, completely unrecognizable, impassable, impenetrable. 

“Shite,” said Sherlock, and his heart pounded. 

“Sherlock? Whatever are you doing out there? You’ll catch your death.” 

“Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, looking over his shoulder at the landlady standing in the doorway, her cardigan wrapped tightly around her. He wondered how he’d managed to forget Mrs. Hudson in his mad rush outside. 

“Come inside,” she said, and reached out to help him out of the snow. He tried to kick the snow off his shoes before shutting the door, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head. 

“Don’t tell me there’s been a murder—“ 

“John has a fever,” said Sherlock. “He had the last of the paracetamol this morning but the fever’s worse, he’s burning up, and he thinks it’s the flu and he goes on about how I haven’t had my vaccination and his temperature must be near 40 and I was going to run to get some more paracetamol, or ibuprofen—“ 

Mrs. Hudson gave him an odd look, and Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, belatedly realizing that he was babbling. 

“The shops won’t be open because of the snow,” he continued, trying to think. “There must be something I can do to bring down the fever.” 

“Ask,” said Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he remembered Mrs. Hudson’s ever dependable and fully stocked drawer of herbal remedies. “Mrs. Hudson—“ 

“Go on, I’ll meet you upstairs,” said Mrs. Hudson, and she disappeared into 221A. 

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, and left the door ajar. He kicked off his soaked shoes and dropped his coat, gloves, and scarf on the floor, poured a glass of water for John, and went up the stairs to John’s room as quickly as he could manage. 

John was still in his bed, still flushed and hot, still in exactly the same position as before. Sherlock held his breath until he saw John’s chest rise and fall. 

“John?” he said softly. “Mrs. Hudson is coming. Hopefully with paracetamol, but failing that, something herbal or perhaps alcoholic.” 

John opened his eyes, took in Sherlock, and closed them again, without saying a word. 

Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps echoed as she climbed the stairs. Sherlock went to meet her at the door. 

“Take his temperature first, let’s find out what we’re dealing with,” said Mrs. Hudson briskly, and handed Sherlock the thermometer. Sherlock held it with two fingers and stared at it like it was a serpent ready to bite. 

“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Mrs. Hudson impatiently, and took the thermometer back. She went over to John and sat next to him on the bed. “John Watson, open your mouth, I need to take your temperature.” 

“Mrs. Hudson?” John woke briefly, and fumbled for the sheets. “I’m – ah – not – ah—“ 

Mrs. Hudson took advantage of John’s stammering and popped the thermometer into his mouth. “Hush,” she said briskly. “I’ve seen it all before, ta, and I’m not interested.” 

John made a protesting sort of noise around the thermometer, and Mrs. Hudson fiddled with the bottles of paracetamol and ibuprofen. 

“Right. So the paracetamol didn’t work this morning, is that right? Let’s try the ibuprofen next.” 

John hummed something in four parts. 

“You can be the doctor when you’re well, but for now you’ll do as you’re told,” said Mrs. Hudson briskly. The thermometer beeped, and Mrs. Hudson pulled it out of John’s mouth to peer at it. “Oh dear.” 

“What?” asked Sherlock from the doorway. 

“You were right, dear. Forty.” 

John groaned on the bed. 

“Allergic to ibuprofen,” he said, and closed his eyes. 

Sherlock frowned. “But…the paracetamol wasn’t working…” 

“Right then,” said Mrs. Hudson, and she reached for the paracetamol again. “Sherlock, how much did you give him this morning?” 

“We have to take him to the hospital.” 

“The roads, dear, they’re impassable.” 

“His temperature is too high.” 

“It’s a fever, Sherlock, we can take care of him here. How much paracetamol did he have this morning?” 

“Two,” said Sherlock. 

“John, I’m going to give you three,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Can you sit up?” 

John didn’t answer; he just shook his head. 

“Sherlock, help me, please,” said Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock sat on John’s other side and slipped his arm under his shoulders. John was a solid, unresisting weight, and Sherlock kept his arm around him, steadying him while he swallowed the pills and drank a few sips of water to chase them down. When John’s head rested on Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock didn’t move. 

“He’s burning up,” said Sherlock, and there was something tense about his voice, even to him. Mrs. Hudson gave him an appraising look. 

“We have to give the paracetamol a chance, Sherlock,” she said gently. “Let him sleep, but keep an eye on his temperature.” 

Sherlock didn’t answer except to lower John back down to the pillow. “What if it doesn’t go down?” 

“Worry about that later,” said Mrs. Hudson, and she smiled gamely at him. “I’ll just let myself out, and I’ll check on you in a bit.” 

Sherlock slipped off the bed and followed her downstairs anyway, but didn’t speak or make a move to stop her. Alone in the flat, he stared at the violin in the corner, waiting for his return; the newspaper where John had left it the day before, folded neatly on his armchair; the snow continuing to fall outside the window, trapping him inside. 

Sherlock reached for his laptop, and went back upstairs. John was asleep, breath shallow, his muscles jerking as if he tried to shiver. Sherlock pulled a sheet over him and pulled the chair in the corner up next to the bed. He sat the laptop on the mattress, opened it, and with half an eye on John and half an eye on the screen, began his research. 

* 

It was an hour before Sherlock remembered to check John's temperature again. John had slept the entire hour, not seeming to mind Sherlock clicking and typing on the softly humming laptop, and Sherlock half thought that John didn't realize he was even there. No matter. Sherlock set the computer on the floor, out of the way, and reached for the thermometer. He studied it for a moment, and then touched John's arm to wake him. 

John was still burning. Perhaps not quite as hot as before, but still incredibly warm to the touch. 

"John," said Sherlock. "John, I need to take your temperature." 

John's eyes opened blearily. "'m awake," he said groggily. 

"How do I work this thing?" asked Sherlock, handing John the thermometer, and John made an odd sound that Sherlock belatedly realized was a giggle. 

"Here," said John. He reached for the thermometer, but his hand fell back to the bed, as if the thing weighed twenty pounds. John fumbled with it for a moment, and then put it in his mouth. He closed his eyes and sighed. 

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together. “Is your neck stiff?” 

“Hmm? 

“Your neck. Is it stiff?” 

“I ache, but it’s not stiff,” said John around the thermometer after a moment. 

“Chest pain? Abdominal pain? Sore throat, severe headache?” 

John opened his eyes. “You’ve been…on NHS Direct…again.” 

Sherlock made an impatient noise. 

“Please tell me…you haven’t been…ringing the helpline…every half hour?” 

“Of course not. The nurses who run the helpline were completely useless and unwilling to send emergency assistance.” 

“It’s _flu_ , Sherlock. Not a brain tumor…meningitis…or hypothermia.” 

“You’re short of breath and you have slept nearly continuously since last night,” said Sherlock sternly. 

John sighed, exasperated even while ill, and closed his eyes again. The thermometer beeped, and when John didn't move, Sherlock reached over and pulled it out of his mouth for him. 

"39.4," he announced with a frown. "Still too high." 

"Needs more time," said John into the pillow. 

"You've had an _hour_ , surely that's enough time." 

John made a non-committal groan, and Sherlock sprung to his feet. "Don't. Move." 

John didn't move, and Sherlock left the room quickly, thundering down the stairs, through the flat, and out to 221A, where he knocked and rapped and pounded, until Mrs. Hudson finally opened the door. 

"Took your time answering!" 

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. "You've been knocking for barely a _minute_ , Sherlock." 

"I have not," said Sherlock, wounded. 

"How is John?" 

"39.4." 

"Better," said Mrs. Hudson thoughtfully. "At least the paracetamol is working." 

"No, it's not, 39.4 is the baseline of when someone should be taken to Casualty—“ 

"And it's coming down, just slowly." 

"Too slowly." 

"Fever is not always a bad thing, you know," said Mrs. Hudson. "John's body is trying to burn off whatever infection is causing the fever." 

"That doesn't make any _sense_ \- why would an infection cause the very action that will ultimately destroy it?" demanded Sherlock, frantic, and he pulled at his hair. 

Mrs. Hudson gave him a look. He knew that look. He'd been on the receiving end of that look scores of times over the years, from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Mycroft and Mummy, and he didn't like it. It was a look that said, "Yes, I hear you, but I'm interpreting your actions in a way that you don't quite intend." John never gave him that look. 

Not entirely true. John gave him that look, but it was usually not quite as biting. 

"Right then," said Mrs. Hudson. "Back up you go. Find some towels. I'll be along in a moment." 

"Towels?" repeated Sherlock, but Mrs. Hudson had already shut the door. 

Sherlock ran back up the stairs and started to tear apart the cupboard where John kept the linen. He pulled out every towel they owned and was halfway up to John's room before he remembered the tiny bit he'd read early on in his research session. 

_Ah, yes. Of course._

Sherlock went back and laid half the towels out on the lavatory flavr, with the other half still folded and sitting on the toilet, ready for use. He frowned at the shower and wondered if John would be able to stand - no bath for him to sit in, and the stall wasn't big enough for a chair. Not that they had a chair that would stand up to a soaking, anyway. 

"Sherlock?" called Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock popped his head out. 

"In here, Mrs. Hudson." 

"Goodness, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, looking at the towel-covered lav. She carried a small plastic basin and a pile of facecloths. "What are you doing?" 

"Cold-water bath, of course, wasn't that what you thought?" 

"I thought rather a sponge-bath, first," said Mrs. Hudson, and she actually had the audacity to smile, when John was upstairs and dying of fever. 

"Total submersion will work faster," said Sherlock. 

"Faster is not necessarily the goal," said Mrs. Hudson. "Let's try it my way first, dear. Be a dear and fill the basin with water. Lukewarm, now, not too cold." 

“The websites said cold.” 

“Can’t believe everything you read on the internet, now,” said Mrs. Hudson over her shoulder, already halfway up the stairs. 

John was still sleeping - Sherlock wasn't sure when John had last actually been _awake_ , but Mrs. Hudson didn't appear very concerned. She took the basin from Sherlock and set it down on the table next to John's bed, and checked the temperature with her fingers to make sure it wasn't too cold. 

"All right," she said. "You're clever, I'm sure you can figure this out. We're going to wet the cloths and use them to wet John - not soak him, mind. It's the evaporation that is going to bring down his temperature, not the actual water." 

"I know that," snapped Sherlock, and plunged a cloth into the water. 

"Wring it out," said Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock did. "John, it's going to be a bit wet now. Sherlock, hand me the cloth." 

"I can—" 

"Yes, dear, I'm sure you can," said Mrs. Hudson, and held her hand out for the cloth anyway. Sherlock gave it to her sulkily. 

John inhaled sharply when Mrs. Hudson touched his neck with the cloth. "Cold," he said. "Too cold." 

"No, dear, it's not too cold - you're just too hot," said Mrs. Hudson gently. “The paracetamol is working, but it’s a bit slow, and one of us is being something of a baby." 

"I am _not_." 

John smiled. "Don't need....to tell me...who." He sucked in his breath again as Mrs. Hudson set the cloth on the inside of his elbow. 

"You're doing it wrong," snapped Sherlock. 

"I'm very sorry," said Mrs. Hudson, although she didn't sound sorry and she didn't sound upset. "Here you are then." She handed Sherlock the cloth and stepped out of the way. "You'll want to take off his shirt, I think." 

John's eyes opened. "I - ah—" 

"Seen it all before, dear, and ta, and not interested," said Mrs. Hudson briskly. "But if it will spare you the blushes, I'll just leave your doctor to it." 

" _He's_ the doctor," said Sherlock. 

"Of course he is, dear. I'll just come back in half an hour to check your progress." 

Mrs. Hudson slipped out of the room, and Sherlock pretended not to see her smile. 

“Sherlock…” 

Sherlock wet the facecloth again, squeezed the excess water out, and folded it in half. He set it on John’s forehead. 

“Why?” 

Sherlock didn’t look at John. “You have a fever.” 

Which was an inadequate response, Sherlock knew, just as he knew what John’s _why_ really was asking. But John didn’t ask for clarification, and Sherlock wasn’t going to think any deeper than he already had, so he wet another cloth and put it under John’s arm. 

“You…don’t….” 

“Please stop talking,” said Sherlock. “You should rest.” 

John closed his eyes, shivering as a third cloth was added to his other armpit, and for a while, neither of them spoke. Sherlock didn’t realize how much time had passed until Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. 

“Yoo-hoo,” she said, popping her head in. “Well?” 

Sherlock put the thermometer into John’s mouth. John was dozing again and didn’t resist. After a moment, it beeped, and he read it with a frown. “No change, still 39.4.” 

“Well, then,” said Mrs. Hudson. “It’s time for your way. I’ll just start the shower, you bring him down.” 

John was half asleep, and surprisingly pliable. Sherlock dropped the damp cloths back in the basin and slid his arm under John to prop him up. “Here we go,” he said, and helped John to his feet. “Can you walk?” 

“Mmm,” said John. “I can’t _sit_.” 

“I could roll you down the stairs,” mused Sherlock. 

John took a raspy breath. “Sod off.” 

“Off we go,” said Sherlock, and supporting John’s weight, started the shuffle to the stairs. 

Going down the stairs with a nearly asleep John was not fun. They nearly fell twice, but Sherlock managed to keep them upright, and by the time he reached the lav, Mrs. Hudson was ready. 

“Sherlock, you’re still dressed,” she said with a frown, and Sherlock frowned. 

“Well, yes.” 

“He can’t stand up on his own,” Mrs. Hudson scolded him. “I don’t think you want him to drown, do you?” 

“But—“ 

“This was your idea, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson reminded him sternly. 

“Can I sit while you argue?” mumbled John into Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock shifted around until he could put John on the toilet seat. John promptly fell over and rested his head on the wall. 

“I really don’t think it would be a good idea—” began Sherlock. 

Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms and _stared_. 

Sherlock swallowed. 

“I require some amount of privacy before disrobing,” he said in an attempt to sound dignified. 

“Oh, for goodness sake,” sighed Mrs. Hudson. “You don’t have to strip down to _nothing_ , just leave on your underthings and keep John from falling over.” Sherlock didn’t move, and Mrs. Hudson sighed again. 

“All right, have it your way. Give us a shout if you need help.” 

Sherlock waited until the door was closed, and then glanced at John, who appeared to be back asleep. He stripped off his shirt and kicked off the trousers. It was harder to pull off the socks without falling over. 

Now for John, who was something of a dead weight. But Sherlock was strong, and he managed to get John up to his feet without too much struggle or banging about. 

“John,” said Sherlock. “We’re going into the shower now.” 

“Eh?” 

Sherlock expected the shower to be cold, but Mrs. Hudson had set the temperature perfectly. It felt like a reasonably comfortable rainstorm, the water on his exposed skin barely noticeable. It was, thought Sherlock, rather pleasant. 

John had another opinion. 

“Christ,” he hissed, eyes blinking as he woke up, and he instinctively pressed away from the water – and into Sherlock’s chest. “ _Cold_.” 

“Not cold, just colder than you by comparison,” said Sherlock. He had to struggle to keep John upright in the shower, his arms wrapped around his friend’s lower back. It was almost an embrace, except John wasn’t hugging him back. 

John shivered violently for a moment, and then relaxed a little before shivering again. “Too cold,” he mumbled, and Sherlock adjusted the temperature of the water. John relaxed even more as the water went up a few degrees. 

“How bad is it?” John asked, voice still slurred. 

“39.4 and holding steady. The paracetamol is working but not very quickly.” 

“If my temperature is only going to go back up—“ 

“Mrs. Hudson and I are reasonably sure that it will not.” 

“All right.” John shivered again. 

“Come on, I’ll turn you around,” said Sherlock, and helped John turn around so that his chest was in the spray. John sighed, and let his head roll back against Sherlock’s chest. 

“I’m wearing clothes.” 

“Well…” Sherlock thought. “People might talk.” 

John giggled. “People do little else.” 

“You’re more awake now.” 

“I’m standing in a bloody cold shower and I’ve been sleeping all day. Of course I’m awake.” 

John struggled in his arms for a moment before Sherlock realized he was trying to turn around again. When John had repositioned himself facing Sherlock’s chest, he sighed and rested his head against the wet t-shirt. 

“You’re dressed too.” 

Sherlock paused. “I…it would have been uncomfortable, had I stripped and you remained clothed.” 

“Right. Good. Of course.” 

The shower fell silent for a few minutes. 

“Is Mrs. Hudson—?” 

“Presumably right outside.” 

“Ah. Right. Fine.” 

Silence again. Sherlock wondered if John’s temperature was coming down at all. He didn’t feel quite so hot anymore, but it was hard to tell, with the water cascading down them. He glanced down at John, and saw that his eyes had closed again, his breathing had slowed, and his facial muscles had completely relaxed. He looked comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be, half dressed and standing in a shower with his flatmate. 

“John?” 

“Hmm?” 

“We should turn you around again.” 

“All right.” 

Some shuffling and John faced the spray before closing his eyes and dozing some more. 

The water kept going, filling the room with white noise, and between the spray that settled on Sherlock’s skin and hair, and the pleasant weight of John against his chest, Sherlock began to relax and breathe more comfortably and easily than he had since that morning, when John didn’t answer his call. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” said Sherlock quietly, but John said nothing, and Sherlock supposed he was asleep again. “You wouldn’t answer when I called your name, you couldn’t sit up. London is caught in a snowstorm and the shops are closed. I don’t like not knowing what to do, John, and I don’t know how to make you well. The world is upside-down when you’re not there.” 

John sighed, a comfortable sigh, a sleepy sigh, and Sherlock thought the shower must be working, if John was sleeping more soundly, even standing up. 

And anyway, standing in the shower, half clothed and holding up John, was boring. 

Sherlock shut the water off and slid the door open. He reached for the towel hanging on the hook and tried to wrap it around them both, without letting go of John, who stood a very good chance of falling bonelessly to the floor. 

There was a knock on the door, and then Mrs. Hudson pushed it open just enough to be heard. “Sherlock, dear, are you finished?” 

“We’re quite decent, Mrs. Hudson, nothing you haven’t seen before, and remember, you’re not interested, ta.” 

“Cheeky,” said Mrs. Hudson, and pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Oh, dear, let me help.” 

Between the two of them, they managed to wrap John in a towel and pull him out of the shower stall, back to sitting on the toilet seat. The warm air from the shower quickly dissipated with the open door, however, and it wasn’t long before John was shivering violently again. 

“We’ll have to take his wet things off,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock, quickly, go and get yourself into something dry and then help me with John.” 

Sherlock hurried, throwing his wet clothes in the laundry basket and pulling on a fresh pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He grabbed an extra set for John, cursing himself for forgetting to bring a set for John from his room. 

By the time he returned to the lav, Mrs. Hudson had pulled off John’s soaking-wet t-shirt and had toweled him off. Sherlock tried to avert his gaze when they stood him up to switch his pants; Mrs. Hudson, true to her word, did not seem to care one way or the other, and mercifully, John remained more or less asleep. Or perhaps only pretended; Sherlock would not have blamed him. 

“Back to bed,” said Mrs. Hudson, and John groaned. 

“Not the stairs,” he whispered, which confirmed Sherlock’s suspicion that John hadn’t been quite as asleep during the dressing as he’d pretended. 

“The sofa isn’t quite so comfortable,” worried Mrs. Hudson. 

“My bed,” said Sherlock without thinking, and they bundled John into Sherlock’s bed, tucking the blanket around him. 

Mrs. Hudson popped the thermometer into John’s mouth, and when it beeped, she beamed at them both. 

“37.8,” she announced, quite pleased. “Well done, Sherlock. You’ll want to keep monitoring him, but I think we’re in the clear now.” 

“It’s still too high,” said Sherlock. 

“But so much less frightening.” Mrs. Hudson patted John’s arm. “I’ll just go back down and make you some soup. Just this once, dear, I’m not your housekeeper.” 

“Cheers, Mrs. Hudson,” said John, eyes still closed, and Mrs. Hudson smiled at them both before leaving the flat again. 

Sherlock sat on the bed next to John and rested his head against the headboard. He felt exhausted, and somewhat chilled himself. Outside the window, the snow was still falling gently; he wondered if John could see it. 

“You’re shivering,” said John. 

“I wasn’t the one in a lukewarm shower with an internal body temperature near 40,” said Sherlock. 

“Slide down, then.” 

Sherlock hesitated. 

“This is worse than half naked in a shower?” 

Sherlock slid down and under the blanket next to John, who turned to him and sighed, content. Sherlock kept watching the snow fall outside the window, and wondered when – or if – it would stop. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Hmm?” 

“The shower. Fevers are good. Mine was going down.” 

“You couldn’t talk,” said Sherlock suddenly. “You didn’t know I was there, half the time.” 

“Sherlock—“ 

“You were confused, befuddled, unavailable. I called your name and you wouldn’t answer. You weren’t yourself. I didn’t know what to do, and you didn’t know I was there.” 

“I knew you were there. I _always_ knew you were there.” 

Sherlock fell silent. 

“I’m watching the snow fall,” said Sherlock, unable to think how to respond, and next to him, John smiled. 

“All right.” 

When Mrs. Hudson returned some time later with the soup, they were asleep. She felt John’s forehead and smiled when it felt cool and comfortable. So she adjusted the blanket around them both and drew the curtains. 

“No, Mrs. Hudson,” whispered John, and Mrs. Hudson looked over her shoulder. “He’s watching the snow fall.” 

“All right, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson, and opened the curtains again. “Back to sleep with you.” 

John smiled, and closed his eyes again. 

Mrs. Hudson closed the door, and let them sleep.


End file.
